


Spirit and Whim

by thecountessolivia



Category: Doctor Strange (2016)
Genre: Conversations, F/M, Hair Braiding, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2016-11-18
Packaged: 2018-08-27 12:57:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8402563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecountessolivia/pseuds/thecountessolivia
Summary: The Ancient One never favours one disciple above another. But Kaecilius has a talent for challenging even her oldest principles.(The origin story of Kaecilius' elaborate hairstyle)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> These two beauties are my OTP. 
> 
> Inspired in part by Camille's [amazing drawing](https://www.instagram.com/p/BLx6t1LDjsD/?taken-by=flyingrotten) of Kaecilius.

Dawn breaks over Kamar-Taj and the Ancient One withdraws from her meditation. Far across the temple, past the training terraces now covered in mists descended from the Himalayas, she hears a young novice open the doors to an old weaver woman.

She rises and wills her robes to wrap about her. They are canary yellow, brilliant enough to offer challenge to the rising sun. Slippers bind about her feet and she steps out from her quarters into the early light of the courtyard. She's greeted by bird song and gossamer fog.

The novices and disciples, too, have been sharpening their minds in meditation since long before dawn. Soon they will breakfast and begin the first lessons of the morning. Days at Kamar-Taj adhere to a firm routine. The Ancient One herself has long done without sleep, preferring to spend the dark hours in the active silence of contemplation. Sleep, to her, is no more than a rare whim. An indulgence.

She reaches the entry halls and the student who'd answered the door startles at her soundless approach. He's a new recruit. His mind is a pebble in an ocean, pushed about by a thousand forces. It will strengthen in time.

The boy bows, arms laden with the package he's been handed. It is bound with brown string and wrapped in butterfly-print paper.

"The robes, Bayani?"  
  
"Yes, Sorcerer Supreme. Only just arrived." Bayani speaks with his eyes cast down. "Shall I take them to Kaecilius now?"

She extends her arms. "I shall take them myself, thank you. Today you are to begin work with your sling ring, isn't that so?"

The boy brightens and nods. "I am, Ancient One. I... I can't wait."

The door to Kaecilius' quarters stands open. Without surprise, she finds him poring over heavy tomes in the company of several acolytes, those young devotees of his magnetism and skill. When she manifests in their presence, they bow and withdraw without a word.

Kaecilius, too, rises and bows. He sleeps nearly as little as she does, more from devotion to his studies than from lack of need. Unlike her, the mental exertions of his late nights still paint themselves on his face. The sight of him warms her. His aura vibrates in all its sharp intensity, sparked from the flintstones of his amber brown eyes. He watches her every move, as if her presence alone offered for him yet another lesson to absorb. 

"Sorcerer Supreme."

She sets her bundle on his bed and gestures for him to settle down beside her. "Your new robes for tonight, Master Kaecilius."

His mouth twitches in a semblance of a smile and he touches the gift as he sits. He shakes his head.  
  
"Not yet a Master, Sorcerer Supreme."

"The robing ceremony is only a formality. In all but this, you are already a Master. Especially to those young minds who flock to you in such great number."

"They have a long path ahead of them..." he says, looking away, out of his small grated window. The sun has risen and streams in countless broken strips into his room.

"Paths, Kaecilius. They have many _paths_ ahead of them. Endless possibilities for kindness and strength. As do you."

"Mistress," he turns back suddenly, and his bold, chivalrous form of address makes her smile. "I was hoping you might honour me. For tonight."

The Ancient One looks down. From the table beside his bed, Kaecilius has taken a pair of scissors. 

He hangs his head, eyes fixed on his hands. They have folded over the scissors, as if in expectant prayer. He has washed his silvered hair in anticipation of today's ceremony. It streams long and damp over his brows, down to the collar of his drab disciple's garb. It shields all but the shape of his complex mouth.

She watches him carefully, considering custom and decorum. At her gentle probing of his aura, he puts up walls. He fears, she senses, that she might view his request as another one of his attempt to fast-track enlightenment. 

She lifts her hand. With a small twist of her wrist, a single silver strand rises from his face and bends to her will. 

"I will not do it, Kaecilius." she says at last, very softly. 


	2. Chapter 2

On Kaecilius' face raw hurt and simple frustration collide.

"I overstepped, Sorcerer Supreme. I apologise. I will do it myself. Or perhaps Mordo..."

"I will not shave your head in preparation for tonight's ceremony, Kaecilius. Nor will Mordo, or you. Or anyone else."

Of all the countless riddles she's thrown at him over the years, this one strikes Kaecilius' mind like a whip of fire. He stands suddenly and paces about his quarters, arms folded, caught and bewildered.

"It is customary, Ancient One. Is it not? A very old custom. Every Master before me --"

"It is customary, but not necessary. Tell me, Kaecilius: why have you asked me to shear your head? My physical form and yours rarely touch, except in the practice of combat. Did you expect the simple touch of my hand would impart on you some wisdom you may not otherwise obtain?"

He stills in his pacing and gazes down at her, eyes blazing. He runs a hand through that straight silver mane, pushing it back from his eyes. He cannot deny her claim. She knows the answer already.

"Another lesson refused, Ancient One?" his voice drips with bitterness and he drops back down to the edge of the bed beside her. With a spell of his hand, the string about the packaged robes twists and snaps.

"You'd gain nothing. I promise you that, Kaecilius."

"Perhaps I'd gain proof of your --" he hesitates. He's overstepped once already. Then he meets her gaze and, oh, that moment she loves so well: the moment when he realises the answer lies in asking the right question.

"Why will you not permit my head to be shaved, Ancient One?"

Gently, very gently, she brings her hands over his and eases them down from their rope-twisting spell. He watches her touch with startled intensity.

"Because you and I are on the cusp. After tonight, you will be my counsellor, my confidant - but no longer a student in name. Because, when you have lived for as long as I have in discipline and devotion, you are entitled to a teacher's final whim. Because --"

Her hands lift from his and her palms open outward to channel her will. The long hair that frames Kaecilius' face rises once more to her enchantment, coils into spirals, glints like silver thread in the light of the morning sun, swims in strands about his neck and cheekbones in a fluid dance of her making.

"Because, my dear Kaecilius, I prefer your hair this way."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some references to [Kaecilius' past](http://moviepilot.com/p/doctor-strange-prelude-comic-strongest-villain-yet-death-mcu/4088269) can be found in his prelude comic.

The Ancient One withdraws her will and Kaecilius' hair eases down about his shoulders. His eyes have closed and he's grown perfectly still. He's put up no resistance, mental or physical, yet the space about them expands and contracts with silence and tension. 

In the distance, chimes and gongs join the sound of bird song. Breakfast is being assembled. Past Kaecilius' door, the Ancient One hears the soft, familiar rhythm of slipper-clad feet pattering towards the courtyard. The day is fair enough to eat beneath the cherry trees. Kaecilius rises once more but doesn't join the procession. Instead, he pours tea. The crease between his brows has deepened.

"You asked about proof, Kaecilius."

He nods, idly bending the pouring stream of amber-green tea into rivulets and spirals. "Proof of your-- your sentiment towards me. Is this commandment to be that proof?"

She nods in turn, patient. She awaits the challenge she knows is to come.

"It's true that in the past I've accused you of withholding knowledge," he says at last, carefully. "But I also know that you rarely act without the intent to instruct. This, too, is some oblique lesson, isn't it? Even if you say it is nothing more than the whim of an affectionate tyrant."

She laughs at the last two words, a clear, crystal sound that leaps off the walls of his room.

"A tyrant! You never spare me, do you? Neither in lesson nor in combat. And to make matters worse, you are rarely wrong. For my part: yes, I don't want to see your hair shorn. As for your part--"

She takes the tea he has offered. She brushes hands with him for the second time that morning.

"Learn, Master Kaecilius, that sometimes there are no deeper truths to be uncovered. I... simply like your hair. It suits you."

"That's all?"

"That's all. Is that so difficult? All right, if you insist: perhaps I also want you to remember that you need not forget about life's small pleasures. You are not an ascetic, Kaecilius, however strong your devotion to the mystic arts. These are simple instructions. Will you accept them?"

He pulls at the paper wrapping his new robes. He considers. He radiates a stubborn heat that she wishes she could melt away. When he speaks again, his voice is rough.

"This world offers me only this. Nothing else matters, Mistress. My mind belongs to the pursuit of knowledge." 

"And where does your _heart_  belong, Kaecilius?"

The expression he bears when he meets her eyes again is that of a man brought before her years ago, cracked with loss and anger. No instruction she has offered over time has yet to sweep his heart clear of that grief.  


	4. Chapter 4

"Have you come only to bring me the robes, Ancient One? Or may I be of some service?"

Kaecilius peers into his tea, as if the tiny cup might suffice as a pool for drowning his moment of grief. Once more, his question is the right one to ask. But its courtesy is a poor mask.

The Ancient One weighs the honesty of her reply.

She has his full attention again when her fingers cast a command over the new garments. Under her guidance, they unfold from their wrapping and smooth down onto the bed to form the shape of a man: a warrior and a scholar. A thickly weaved robe, leather-trimmed and dyed with the heartwood of jack fruit to the deep yellow of a sunset; for the wrists and forearms, gauntlets with elaborate bindings; for the waist, a pleated sash festooned with ropes and brass clips, made for ceremony as much as utility.

She sees clearly how well all of this will suit him. The image pleases her - yet is incomplete. She knows how to proceed.

"There is something else. Do you recall your days as a novice, Kaecilius?"

He brings an admiring hand down to touch the robe. He nods. "The riverbank. We would spend our mornings there, away from the others."

"Those times offered you peace, I think. You were still distressed back then."

"Still, yes," he says absently. Then adds: "I was abrupt with the other novices. The mornings with you did ease my mind. I was grateful for them."

"And now that you stand on the cusp of Mastery, I can offer you little more. But I'd like to share with you something of myself. It is only fair - you understand why?"

"Not many know how I was found. Why I came to you."

"Except for Mordo, myself and a handful of others. Knowing your past is a privilege. Now I can give you a glimpse of my own."

He swallows. He waits, watching her with the hungry curiosity she loves so well.

"How?"

"A portal if you will, Master Kaecilius."

He reaches for his sling ring without delay or hesitation. He casts the fiery passage with all the grace of a dancer and they step through it together.

\---

It's been years since they've come to this place as two. The river here is no more than a stream, murmuring as it trickles down from the mountains that cradle it in the valley of their magnificence. The morning turns their distant snowy peaks to gold.

The Ancient One and Kaecilius settle into a lotus, across from each other, as they used to when she worked so hard to discipline his troubled mind with meditation.

"I'd like to show you a trick. A mere conjuring of a street magician," she says softly. Then her voice drops further into an incantation, chanted in a language too old to name.

In the light of the morning sun, the smooth shorn skin of her scalp begins to thicken with pale gold.

The hair streams over her temples, pours in a cascade over her shoulders, outshines even her fine canary cloak. She savours the illusion, the crisp breeze tangling in the tresses. Her eyes are closed, but she feels Kaecilius' gaze on her like two dark ambers, burning with wonder. When she speaks again, she sounds younger, gentler - softer still.

"Your story began on a green island, Kaecilius. Mine did too. Another island, a very long time ago. A frail pale girl with long yellow hair, brought up by monks. Monks who sought knowledge in sacred geometry, far more crudely than we ever did at Kamar-Taj."

"Icovellavna," Kaecilius whispers. "Sacred knots."

The pale tresses about her head begin to undulate, splitting and pulling back taught into three streams.

"Icovellavna both decoded and protected the eternal, cyclical web of existence. The monks illuminated their manuscripts with them. They carved them into their gravestones. And they bound them into my hair."

The three streams of gold at her nape twist together, knotting tightly before settling down again. She reaches up to touch.

"Mimic me, Kaecilius. Lift your hands."

His eyes still fixed on hers, he does as he's told. He cannot help a gasp. Under his fingers, his silver mane now lies smoothed and braided in a mirror image of her own illusory tresses. Brass bands clip back the three partitions, coiled thickly where they begin to taper.

Above the crystal song of the stream, the Ancient One laughs at his awe. The magic dissipates and her own head is severe and ascetic again.

"There, Kaecilius. My gift to you. A symbol of the endless possible paths woven into an eternal knot. Wear it well."

His fingers are still smoothing over the strange new shape of her gift.

"I will treasure it, Ancient One," he whispers. "I will hold it as a reminder."

She's smiling indulgently.

"A reminder of?"

He rises from the lotus and for a moment, he towers above her. His form blocks out the morning sun.

"That in the eternal knot of time, there are always more secrets to be uncovered."

There is no malice in his words. Only gratitude and pleasure. Yet when he speaks them, the Ancient One's smile wanes. She imagines the boundless paths that lie ahead now. At the end of all of hers stands Kaecilius.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading. This is such an unusual pairing, I'm really glad it got as many clicks as it did.
> 
> Quick note: Kaecilius is from Denmark. I couldn't find anything about the AO's background in the film beyond her being Celtic - so I placed her origins somewhere on the British Isles.


End file.
